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Thursday, May 12, 2016

Excerpt ~ The Kingdom of Oceana by Mitch Hookipa

Excerpt from Ch. 1: Waimoku Falls

We climbed the backside of the
canyon, still winding through the singing forest. A sudden gust blew through
the treetops, causing the tall hollow stalks to cry a warning and my heart to
beat faster. What danger was Nahoa getting me into this time?

By midday we reached the tree line,
and the terrain became near vertical, with slabs of volcanic rock stacked in a
series of small ledges and caves.

I turned around, looking out over
the green bamboo treetops. To my right, the towering snow-capped summit of Mauna
Kea dominated the sky. It was the tallest and most sacred spot on the Great
Island, and on rare occasions smoke and ash billowed from its peak, rising
above the icy white snowdrifts. Fortunately, there had not been a major
eruption or lava flow in many generations.

“I’ll race you to the top,” Nahoa
challenged. “I’ll even give you a head start.”

We had always enjoyed a spirited
rivalry, feeding off each other’s competitive nature. I surveyed the cliff,
picking my route.

“You’re on,” I said as I hoisted
myself up and grabbed onto a small lava finger hold. Just above me was a long
fissure in the rock, sloping upward to my right and then back to the left.
While this path would take me on a longer course, it was less demanding, and my
best chance to beat Nahoa to the crest.

He saw my plan. “Good, little
brother. That path is safer.”

I carefully moved forward, while
Nahoa soon got stuck above me on the sheer vertical wall of lava, his legs
dangling and his feet probing the cliffside.

“Fingers getting tired?” I asked him
as I moved closer to the top. I was going to beat him, for once.

“I won’t be here long,” he said.

As I followed the crevice back to
the left, Nahoa whipped his body to the right and leapt off the cliff, his foot
landing on my shoulder. He pushed off my neck and hoisted himself onto the
ledge above me, just below the crest.

“Thanks, omo,” he said with a wicked
laugh.

As I pulled myself onto the ridgetop
I saw Nahoa ahead, following a fast-moving river that disappeared in the
distance.

“Move it!” he yelled above the sound
of the rushing water.

I hurried to catch up and we crossed
the river along a jagged path of partially submerged boulders smoothed over by
the rapids.

Before us, the river gained strength
where it merged with a smaller tributary and formed a swirling vortex that
plummeted off the cliff as Waimoku Falls.

“That’s it,” said Nahoa, pointing at
a small hill piled with rubble just in front of where the two rivers joined.

There we found the remains of a
crescent-shaped fortress made from stacked lava rocks. The curved wall was
crumbling, with crusty orange lichen growing in the crevices and bright green
geckos sunning themselves on top. The ground was littered with shark teeth,
razor sharp and bleached by the scorching tropical sun.

I was disappointed. I’d hoped to
find a great temple with cryptic markings or intricate carvings. What lay
before us was nothing more than a pile of weather-beaten rocks.

“Well, this is a waste of time,”
said Nahoa. He picked up a stone and hurled it at the remains of the fortress.
From beneath the broken wall, a gathering of centipedes scrambled to escape the
sunlight.

An icy wind went through me. It
wasn’t like a tropical breeze that cools your sweaty cheek. No, it pierced my
flesh like I was no more solid than a palm frond. Disturbing the centipedes was
a bad omen—they were minions of the shadows.

“Did you feel that?” I asked.

Nahoa stood frozen, the hair on his
arms standing on end.

He swallowed. “Feel what?”

“I don’t think we should be here,” I
said, motioning for us to leave. For once, I hoped he’d agree with me.

Nahoa walked over to where he’d
thrown the rock and knelt to examine the rubble. He picked through and
uncovered a wooden tiki head. The carving was badly weathered, its left ear
missing. Its mouth snarled, and its eyes glared with menace.

I looked at my brother’s face. He
was in a trance, his head tilted down and his eyes looking up. They were cold
and lifeless.

“Nahoa,” I screamed. “Stop playing
around. That’s not funny!”

But he just stood there. I yelled
again, “Nahoa! We shouldn’t be here. Let’s go!”

He blinked, but otherwise remained
perfectly still.

As I stepped toward him, Nahoa
pulled his knife and backed me toward the rushing river.

“It’s you that doesn’t belong here,
little brother,” he said in a hushed tone.

Then he charged at me like a wild
boar, knocking me into the water. I stood up, knee- deep in the fast-moving
river, and dug my feet into the rocky bottom, bracing myself so the current
didn’t pull me downstream. Nahoa leapt again and landed on top of me, sending
us both tumbling into the whitewater.

Since we were old enough to walk,
Nahoa and I had been schooled by the masters in lua[4]—wrestling,
hand-to-hand combat, and the use of our tribe’s most savage battle weapons.
From years as sparring partners, I knew all his offensive moves and counter
attacks as though they were my own. But as we raced downstream, bouncing off
the rocks and plummeting down the rapids, I felt as though I was fighting a
stranger. And I was fighting for my life.

Up ahead, jagged rocks rose above
the waterline. I flipped onto my back with my feet below me, struggling against
Nahoa’s hands wrapped around my throat. I kicked free of him, but that only
quickened my pace down the rapids. I slammed into a boulder, my feet bracing my
impact. I was exhausted, but knew I had to get out of the water before I
reached the falls. I managed to clamber partway up a slippery rock, then
gathered the strength to hoist myself completely from the rushing current.
Upstream, I saw Nahoa dangling from a tree branch, the rapids churning below
him.

My footing slipped and in an instant
I was back in the river. The turbulence engulfed me, pulling me into the
foaming whitewater. Then I was weightless, freefalling.